


Scream From The Top Of My Lungs (What's Going On?)

by RedBlazer



Category: Sense8 (TV), The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eliot Waugh is Extra, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Endgame Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Episode: s01e04 The World in the Walls, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired By Sense8, M/M, Magic is Real, Okay wow we went there, POV Quentin Coldwater, Platonic Cuddling, Polyamory, Protective Margo Hanson, Psychic Bond, References to Depression, Sensate Cluster(s), Simultaneous Orgasm, Supportive Eliot Waugh, Touch-Starved, but low key everyone ends up with eachother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: The absurdity of the whole situation is that it turns out that going crazy didn’t feel like going crazy somehow. It felt like someone kept switching the channel on his life at random intervals.Sometimes he’ll take a sip of water and taste champagne bubbles on his tongue, feel the urge to straighten his clothes like he hasn’t basically been wearing pajamas for a week now. Then he’ll relax back into the body cradling his own, his head resting in the lap of someone who runs fingers through his hair, twisting that one curl that refuses to bend to his will in a way that will make it stand up straight. His hand flicks up on reflex, holding onto a slender wrist to stop its movement.Alarmingly, one time he’s pretty sure he’s holding a gun and advancing down an alleyway in some city.Regardless, Midtown Mental Health Clinic is the worst possible place to start seeing impossible things and have out of body experiences.Alternate Season 1/Sense 8 AU that no one asked for quite frankly.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Everyone, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 89
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All! If you have seen the Netflix Series Sense8 the basic premise is this: groups of 8 people are born into the world known as clusters, the people within them are Sensates. They're all psychically linked throughout their lives though they do not know this until they are 'Born' and these other members of the cluster begin to make themselves known. They can visit each other mentally, appearing to interact with surroundings. Sensates can feel the touch of each other as well as gain an impression or feelings, and memories. Members of a cluster can even inhabit the bodies of other cluster members to perform a task they have knowledge of too.
> 
> Sensates are incredibly rare. Outsiders know nothing of them. But of course there may be those who seek out clusters to harness the powers they possess. That should be enough background to get you in though I highly reccommend the TV series!
> 
> This work is from Quentin's point of view there's a pretty common theme of depression, self-deprecating thoughts and references to 'crazy' behavior. Be advised I know that mental health can be/is a real struggle for many people, myself included, but that Quentin is expressing himself in ways that aren't particularly healthy. Honestly, I think it's evidenced by the canon of the show. This fic begins in the mental health facility from the series but by no means am I any kind of mental health professional so I am playing vague with its operation.
> 
> As for pairings: as this is a Sense8 AU there's a fair bit of consciousness sharing and pretty much everyone in the cluster is involved in some way or another. Quentin/Eliot is the primary pairing and I will do my best to tag any other instances of other pairings, but its pretty fluid.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic. I wanted to capture the found family of the cluster from Sense8 and how that might effect Quentin's mental health in a positive way.
> 
> I have no beta, all mistakes are my own but honestly expect some typos.
> 
> Enjoy!

Quentin was in here for a _very_ different kind of crazy than the one he was about to experience. One that he really wouldn’t even describe as crazy, more like broken. The kind of broken where it was impossible to just do or _be_ sometimes. Because broken things can’t accomplish their tasks, not without mending, a set of physical or metaphorical hands setting things back into place with delicate care.

He committed himself--voluntarily thank you very much--because he could feel it beginning, the listless drag of _too much_ and _not enough_. And it had actually felt like a victory to go when he did and not under the guidance of his dad or, you know, Julia.

No. Quentin packed his own bag, signed his own intake papers and told the nice doctor about the pressure he was feeling, the effort it was to just be. RE: broken brain.

So he was feeling pretty good about himself all things considered, sitting in his bed with a fucking flashlight after lights out like a child, Fillory and Further Book 4 cradled in the valley of his knees when it happened.

There was a tingling in his fingertips all of a sudden, like his hands were resting against the side of a subwoofer blasting music. Pulsing. Rhythmic.

He stretched out his hands, feeling the tendons contract and frankly it felt kind of good after the hour or so that he’d been under the blanket in his bed, escaping into the lives of three British kids.

Then just as sudden as the tingling had hit him, a ringing migraine headache pulsed right behind the eyes. The light of the flashlight blinded him all of a sudden, sending sparks of pain rattling around in his brain. Quentin crushed his eyelids together, eyebrows furrowing against the sudden pain.

He stayed like that for so long that it took an effort to get his fingers to let go of the flashlight still clutched in his hand. The ache jolting up his arm as muscles forced themselves into relaxing. 

He needed water. Needed something.

Quentin practically rolled from the bed onto the floor in the darkness, trying his best not to disturb his roommate who has somehow slept through this whole ordeal. He stumbled into the small bathroom attached to their bedroom, shutting the door behind him--no lock--Quentin resisted the urge to just lean against it and slide down onto the floor.

The feeling of cool water cupped in both of his hands was bracing. The buzzing sensation was back now and in the darkness Quentin somehow swore he could see tiny ripples buzzing across the surface of the water in the same rhythm his hands were feeling. He couldn’t even bring himself to think about _that_ right now.

Rather, now Quentin’s focused on the taste of warm nickel in his mouth as he took a sip of the water cupped in his palms. Jesus, was his nose bleeding?

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose, frantically flailing for the light switch with his free arm. Childhood nosebleeds were a common occurrence quite honestly, though no one’s probably surprised by this when they look at him. The worst one was at 14, right out of the blue, a white hot explosion across his brain and then a gout of blood that was only stopped by Julia cleverly cutting a tampon in half and shoving both pieces up his nose. And then for reasons unknown they both couldn’t stop crying for about an hour.

The overhead fluorescent flickered to life, casting the room in a sickly yellow green that did nothing for the bags under his eyes, the sallow tint to his skin that came with not leaving his apartment for about a week before he checked himself in.

Only, that _would_ be what Quentin thought if he could see himself in the mirror. He would see his own slightly drawn skin over sharper cheekbones than usual, chapped lips from the dry hospital air, and his limp hair.

Instead, when he spun back around, the figure in the mirror stood a full head taller than Quentin. Droplets of water were falling from the man’s dark curly hair, leaving damp impressions in the fine fabric of his vest and shirt. Like he had just run his wet hands through it. And now Quentin can feel his whole body light up with the vibrations. It’s music.

Pulsing, heavy, heady music that made his ears ring and his headache pulse at a higher frequency. Quentin took in the room behind the man for a second, the walls weren’t the white tile of the hospital, they were black and covered in half torn down stickers and band stickers. There was a line of urinals against the back wall. It was certainly not the same room or even the same building Quentin was in.

The man in the mirror narrowed his glassy green eyes at Quentin, stooping lower to look Quentin on the same level. Quentin took a hasty step away from the mirror, like somehow the man’s large hand would shift from running through his hair again to grab Quentin by the throat.

A flash of red caught Quentin’s notice finally, a single line of blood running from the man’s nostril down to mingle with the stubble on his upper lip.

“Huh.” The man said, quietly and somehow Quentin heard it over the pulsing beat moving around them.

“Nope!” Quentin replied in turn, letting go of his own nose to run both of his hands through his hair.

The man in the mirror narrowed his eyes at Quentin and then quirked and an elegant eyebrow. Quentin felt something warm coil in his belly that had been pretty much absent since Quentin switched his meds a few months ago.

The man in the mirror threw his head back in a long laugh, the melodic quality of it echoing off the tile walls around him. He moved in exaggerated, almost curated ways. The kind of long, drawn out expressions that silent movie stars pioneered as title cards of dialogue would flash on screen.

If this _were_ a movie Quentin’s would read:

**What the actual fuck?**

Just as quickly as the man’s laugh had begun, it ended and his head snapped back to stare down at Quentin. It was almost like he was finally taking in Quentin. It made his skin tingle, that intense, dissecting look in the man’s eyes. Quentin felt pinned in place, like a bug caught under a net, the wings of his heart fluttered wildly in his chest, the rest of him paralyzed. Quentin’s always thought there should be a third part to the whole ‘Fight or Flight’ thing. Freeze.

Then a pounding at the door made Quentin nearly jump out of his skin. He turned to the door, throwing it open to reveal nothing but the quiet sterile room of the hospital. When he turned back to the mirror the man was still standing there, staring at him. And the line of blood was still moving. It had crossed the twin hills of his lips, bypassing the cleft of his chin by about a half an inch, now leaving a mark down the man’s long, regal neck. The blood was wicking into the fabric of his white shirt.

The pounding happened again and then there was the very real sound of a door slamming open though Quentin couldn’t see where it was on the other side of the mirror but the man’s eyes flickered over to the source of the sound.

“Jesus, Eliot!” A woman’s low and somehow still shrill voice sounded. “We need to get you the fuck home, I think that coke was cut with something. I have a motherfucker of a headache!”

Quentin blinked and he’s staring back at himself. The spell was broken.

He raced up to the mirror, pressing his nose so close he could see his own pores, feeling it’s chill against his skin.

A wave of horror rolled through him along with the chill of standing on the tile of the bathroom floor without his socks on. Is this how it was finally going to happen? Delusions and visions and no one believing what he was seeing and tasting and feeling? A lifetime wrapped up in white walls instead of short pit stops to get his feet under him again? Julia on the outside getting her Masters Degree, and married, and kids, and moving to the West Coast, first letters every week and then just cards on his birthday--

‘STOP IT.’ Another voice shouted at him, this one was annoyed and it felt like it came from right beside him. Quentin scrambled to find the source. But he was alone in the bathroom, with only the small wheezing of his roommate and his own labored breathing to keep him company. ‘Go to fucking bed, you idiot.’

Quentin frowned. Even in his darkest moments, he’s not sure he’s ever sounded so exasperated with himself. He must really be going crazy.

‘You think you’re crazy, you got no idea what crazy is, Quentin.’ It’s the same voice, only this time it sounds softer, more like an aside. It’s a warm voice but gruff and somehow familiar.

“Hello?” Quentin chances aloud. His voice echoing slightly off the walls around him.

‘Shut up. Don’t do that. Stop. You can hear me?’ The voice in his head chuckled to itself, but it’s like Quentin can feel the rumble of it in his own chest. ‘No, man. You don’t get to do that after all this time. Shut up.’

Inexplicably Quentin held his hands up in supplication like he could reason with the newfound insanity.

‘Quentin, It would take a lot more than that for me to _ever_ like you.’ The voice pressed back.

And that somehow made a manic giggle spill from Quentin’s lips. “Hey. What can I call you?” It was the dumbest thing he could ask quite honestly. He shouldn’t be naming whatever voice was going to tell him to light mailboxes on fire or become the King of Fillory.

‘The fuck did you just ask me? God, you’re such a fucking nerd.’

And shit. His inner voice had anger issues. Is this a Dissociative Identity Disorder thing?

‘Quentin I swear to god, if you don’t shut up and go to sleep right now, I’m going to find you and put you out of your misery.’ And now the voice was _growling_ and Quentin figuratively felt pushed against a wall by the presence.

Quentin peeled himself away from the bathroom, sufficiently threatened with bodily harm by his conscience.

‘Fuck you. Not your conscience, even if I know enough about your browsing history to have some COMMENTARY.’

Somehow that sent an even larger spike of fear through him.

‘Just go the fuck to sleep Quentin.’

He makes it to his bed by sheer force of will, the tips of his fingers sore when they pull back the covers and get under them. A sudden rush of calm overtook him despite the headache pounding away behind his eyes. Quentin felt it wash over him like a warm blanket.

‘It’s Penny.’ the voice said quietly, reluctantly. Quentin somehow felt like he was being trusted with something precious.

But he was out of it and also maybe going crazy so instead he mumbled to himself.

“S’ a girl’s name.”

And Quentin felt his own chest rumble with a growl he didn’t produce.

He sleeps.

They all sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quentin lets himself want things.

The absurdity of the whole situation is that it turns out that going crazy didn’t  _ feel _ like totally losing it somehow. Instead, it felt like someone kept switching the channel on his life at random intervals. 

And Quentin finds himself not in art therapy, but instead staring down at a small glass figurine of a horse, feeling like he’s going to supernova under the breadth of his grief. The smell of sharp disinfectant burning in his nose.

He’s not looking out a window onto the Hudson River outside the hospital, he’s standing in a vast, eerily familiar misty forest. Each breath of air into his lungs sends a shivery, gassy happiness straight to his brain.

Quentin’s not running his hands through his own hair tiredly, he’s sending a boar bristle brush through what feels like yards and yards of cascading soft, brown hair. He’s preening before a large gilt, gold mirror. The flash of a pale body tangled up in burgundy sheets over his shoulder sending a curl of feeling through him. Love. Some exasperation. Protectiveness.

The air conditioning will fall away around him, replaced by the humid, sticky heat of a dock stretching out into lagoon, reeds sticking out of the water and long tendrils of moss coming off of the trees. Bugs buzzing in his ears. God, he’s so fucking pissed.

Sometimes he’ll take a sip of water and taste champagne bubbles on his tongue, feel the urge to straighten his clothes like he hasn’t basically been wearing fucking pajamas for a week now. Then he’ll relax back into the body cradling his own, his head resting in the lap of someone who runs fingers through his hair, twisting that one curl that refuses to bend to his will in a way that will make it stand up straight. His hand flicks up on reflex, holding onto a slender wrist to stop its movement.

Alarmingly, one time he’s pretty sure he’s holding a gun and advancing down an alleyway in some city.

Right now, he was standing in the hallway minding his own business when he saw the curl of cigarette smoke curling in front of his face and seriously-- “That’s not fucking fair.” 

Movement startled to his left, and a familiar husky female voice sounded, “Q?”

Julia.

Julia. What the fuck?

She was there for a split second. Or rather, Quentin was with her. For one impossible moment he was standing on the small fire escape of her apartment, clutching his hoodie against his arms in the autumn chill. Their eyes met for a moment, matching wide expressions.

Utterly impossible. But then impossible things just kept staking up.

Quentin dropped back into his body and he swore he could feel the smoke leaving his lungs when he let the air go.

It  _ should have  _ felt like the world was tilting on its axis every minute of every day in the week that followed.

But it was oddly comforting to be pulled in any direction away from this hospital with its white hallways, white tile, white uniforms, (white pills if he’s honest), ETC. None of these people, these figments seemed threatening. Even Penny, who made himself known frequently when Quentin was least expecting it, when he was listening to the CDs he brought with him. Yes, actual CDs.

These people felt like friends somehow. Even when Penny screamed at him -- ‘TAYLOR SWIFT? COME ON MAN!’ That must be why his brain picked Julia after all, to comfort him with his best friend in the whole world, one of the people who saved his life just by being in it.

So he didn’t tell anyone what’s going on. Not a single doctor, nurse, or orderly.

He didn’t end up needing to.

They knew.

Well they couldn’t  _ know _ exactly. But they knew something was happening.

At his check-in, Quentin’s psychiatrist stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup for a long moment before she asked him how he was doing.

“Actually feeling like I’ve got a handle on things, you know, up here.” Quentin tapped his forehead. Wow, you would think with all the practice he had with this, he would be able to do this better.

Dr. Brown nodded once, “The staff have noticed a few things they wanted to bring to my attention.”

A pit grew in Quentin’s stomach.

“You’re less active at group sessions, you haven’t been participating in music or art therapy, and frankly you don’t seem like yourself.” She set the coffee down on her desk.

“I mean, isn’t that like, a good thing?” Quentin asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I kinda came here because I wanted--I didn’t feel like I could you know--take care of myself. Maybe this new Quentin is a guy who can, you know, do that?”

There was a deep drawn out sigh from the formerly empty armchair next to Quentin. Oh no. Not now. No. No. No.

Quentin glanced to the side as the faint scent of jasmine hit his nose, taking in the girl beside him. She was frankly the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, all compact curves, light honey brown skin, and frighteningly intense eyes fixed on the doctor across from them.

“Jesus, this place is depressing.” The girl grumbled, clicking her nails distastefully against the arm of the chair she was sitting in.

Quentin was pretty sure he actually squeaked.

“Is everything okay?” Dr. Brown asked, all concerned eyebrows and leaning forward.

Quentin could feel all of the blood in his body rush to his face as he tried to remain calm and look as normal as possible. By no means did he ask if the doctor could see or hear the woman at his side. It was pretty obvious by the fact that she wasn’t asking the girl where she’d gotten that perfect shade of mauve lipstick. It was just Quentin.

“Of course.” Quentin said, his voice tight.

“Tell her you’re contemplating the things you’re looking forward to when you leave this shit box.” The stranger told him in a droll, bored voice. Quentin somehow expected her to pull out a nail file and get to work on her manicure.

“You know--ah--If I’m being honest, It’s been hard to focus lately because I’m thinking about all of the things I’m--you know--looking forward to out in the ‘real world’” Lord almighty, Quentin actually used air quotes.

“I’ve seen better acting on PornHub.” The girl grumbled.

And yeah, Quentin had too, but sometimes there could also be really nuanced performances--nope. Not here. Not now.

Still, this had Dr. Brown raising an eyebrow and jotting something down on her pad of paper. “That’s great Quentin. Let’s unpack that--”

The girl stuck around through the whole thing, offering annoyed commentary at every one of the things Quentin could think of that he’s looking forward to. And honestly, they do sound kind of pathetic strung together like paper lanterns at a theme party.

“I’d like to see my friends.” Quentin found himself saying, though his experience of friends has only ever been the singular ‘Friend’ and never the plural. “Um, go to brunch.”

The girl extended her hands to the ceiling, “Now you’re talking my language!”

He ended up telling Dr. Brown about all of the applications he needed to get to now that his graduate program was officially over. Had been over for months really. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do  _ any _ of it or anything really. Not for weeks.

And that must be enough for the day because Quentin was excused to do whichever quiet, comforting activity he saw fit for the rest of the afternoon. Mostly he needed to get out of this room as fast as possible before he blew his cover. There was something seriously  _ wrong _ with Quentin’s brain chemistry. Again.

He let himself out to the hallway, somewhat surprised when the sound of clicking heels on the linoleum floor followed him out.

“Jesus, I thought that woman would never stop talking.” The girl said, like they were old buddies.

Quentin ducked into a quiet room with a couple couches and some sad watercolors on the walls. They had movie nights here on Tuesdays.

“You need to stop!” Quentin whisper-yelled at her when she followed him inside. “I’m trying to maintain some semblance of sanity here and it’s kinda hard when you're--” He gestured to her entire being, “when you’re here! So please just,  _ stop. _ Not here. Not when I’m in therapy, please!”

Her almond-shaped eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before narrowing on him like a viper. “Listen here you little twerp, I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to tell me what to do! I’ll grind your weak-ass bones to make my bread!”

Quentin stopped himself from taking a step backwards. But only just.

“Uh, I think I do get to tell you what to do, considering that I made you up, which means I think I should be the one in charge. At least this one time.” Quentin said, thinking he’s made a pretty good point.

The girl looked at him up and down with a baffled expression. “I’m Margo.” She answered as though that told him anything. “Eliot told me about you, said you were cute but not that you’re a total dip-dee-doo up here.” And then she poked him in the forehead with a sharp finger. At the contact, Quentin’s head tipped back and the shock of it caused his whole body to rock back on his heels, so easily moved by this tiny, frightening woman. “You’re not even that cute by the way. But I guess the guy has a type--everybody.”

Quentin was processing too much to even take that in. His skin tingled where she had touched him. Goosebumps lifted the hair on his forearms. Hell, if it wasn’t so long right now, he’s pretty sure his hair would be standing on end.

Margo ignored the nervous breakdown happening before her to run a hand through his hair, parting it this way and that with sure little touches. “I don’t know, maybe if you did something with this floppy mess. Do you even condition?”

The only sentence Quentin could manufacture was this:

“I have a two-in-one shampoo.”

She tsked at him.

Quentin’s hands curled and uncurled themselves at his sides until he could make them move again, reaching up to wrap around Margo’s upper arms. His fingers made contact with the soft, bare skin revealed below the cap sleeves of her fuchsia cocktail dress. Carefully, Quentin focused on the soft give of flesh beneath his hands and when he held on to her he was shocked by the fact that it felt so fucking real.

Oh my god. She was real.

Quentin’s mind was overactive but he was not that good. No way he could perfect that feeling of actual contact. A million ways things could go wrong? Yes. Complications for every possible plan? Absolutely. Absurd fears at the drop of a hat? No question.

But a whole entire person who he could touch, whose breath he could feel on his cheek now that he really thought about it? It was utterly impossible.

Margo looked down at his hands holding onto her, eyebrows pulled together in concern.

“Honey, you look like you’re going to pass out.”

It was the first time time she’d spoken to him with anything other than sharp annoyance or outright aggression. He could see her shift gears into protection and concern with practiced ease.

“Come sit down.” She told him, taking him by the hand, pulling him along to one of the lumpy couches. Margo obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who ever took ‘No’ for an answer. Quentin wasn’t quite able to give it, frankly. So he let himself be tugged along, and then pressed into the cushions, molded until he was tilted sideways, pressing his head into her lap.

Hey. He knew this. He’d  _ done  _ this before.

“I’m never going to get out of here.” Quentin said softly.

“Stop that.” Margo shushed him, carding a hand through his hair and Quentin hoped she wasn’t looking for split ends or evidence of the last time he’d showered, quite frankly. “Don’t wind yourself up, baby.”

How could this woman flip so easily from terrifying to comforting? Was this Stockholm Syndrome?

And honestly, why was Quentin letting himself be petted and comforted like this? He couldn’t deny how it quieted his nervous system, coaxed the twitching to leave his hands. 

But none of this was normal. He was a one-armed hugger, never wanting to cling too much--be asked to pull away by someone who didn’t want that. It was easier to give less than put in too much and be told to take it away.

But Margo gave everything it seemed, even to someone she’d only just met. But that wasn’t true. Not really.

“Quentin, Where are you?” Margo asked softly.

Quentin huffed a harsh sigh, making to push himself up and out of her lap but surprisingly strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and shoved him back down. Fine, Quentin rolled onto his side, staring at the wall instead up into her face with it’s all seeing-all knowing eyes.

“Midtown Mental Health Clinic. You should know that.” Quentin said, his voice coming out as a listless murmur.

Her tongue clicked once at that. Her hands tightened briefly on his shoulders.

“Baby, I can feel it, okay. I know you feel like there’s nothing you can do right now to make this better, but I need you to try, okay?” Margo asked. Quentin rolled over onto his back reluctantly. Margo rested a warm, small hand on his forehead and he closed his eyes against the little trill he felt all the way down to his toes. He was pretty sure that no one had ever touched him like this before. Like he was a precious  _ thing _ . Like they needed to be gentle with him. “I need you to say you will.”

Quentin nodded. That seemed to be enough.

“You know, you always kinda look like you're on the verge of tears,” Margo remarked, and boy howdy did that make his throat tighten up like he was suddenly right there, ready to cry. “It does something to me, makes my cold dead heart wanna march in time with yours. Also kinda makes me wanna find out if you're the kinda guy who tears up after they come really hard.” She was still stroking his hair in a familiar, platonic way, though Margo’s voice had dropped about two registers at the end there.

Quentin frowned up at her, a comical look of confusion painted across his face.

“Don’t worry, Q. I’m not gonna jump your bones.” Margo confided, though she did lean forward to kiss him on the forehead, right between the eyebrows. Her cascade of brown hair tickled his neck as her lips made contact. “I mean...unless you want me to.” She growled playfully against his skin.

Quentin hissed out a breath, squirming. Wanting that, somewhat surprisingly after a couple of months of feeling nothing. But also not right now.

She left another smacking kiss on his brow, pulling back with a warm look in her eyes.

“Alright, Quentin. Maybe after you’ve taken a shower and washed this hair.” Margo admonished him, pulling gently at his forelock in a way that actually made him squeak and roll onto his side, needing to hide his crumbling expression somewhat. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” Margo said and then she bit down on his ear because she was some sort of vixen sent to torture him.

She went back to her familiar comfort, lulling Quentin into a calm he hadn’t felt in a long time and he languished in it like a cat in a column of sunlight on the living room floor.

“You aren’t crazy, Quentin.”

She said it sometime later and it permeated into his mind. A single cell. Splitting into two and then doubling over and over again as it took on its own life there.

He opened his eyes at some point and the sun was casting a pink haze across the sky out the barred window of the room. His head was on the cushion of the couch. Quentin was alone in the room once more.

She was gone.

Quentin pressed himself to sit up on the couch, feeling his joints pop in protest. He ran a hand through his own hair, tucking it behind his ear in a familiar tick. The ghost of Margo’s hands on him sent a shiver down his spine.

It was impossible that she could  _ actually _ be real.

But then again, was Quentin capable of making up a woman who was like Margo? So utterly pulled together, terrifying, and yet nurturing? Someone who at the drop of a hat had turned a platonic moment into something sensual so that he was now trying to control his breathing at its memory. That wasn’t Quentin at all.

Could she be real? 

Could the Eliot be real? Quentin hadn’t even thought that name to himself since that night in the bathroom. Was it his blood or Eliot’s running in line down the other man’s neck? And why did Quentin want to mirror its path on the other side, up the clean expanse of Eliot’s neck with his tongue?

Quentin shivered against the arousal making itself known in small waves lapping at him. He was standing at the edge of the ocean, feet depressed into the sand as a warm tide of sea foam rushed towards the beach. And he could choose to walk forward, up to his knees, up to his chest, take a deep breath and dive under into the waves. Feel himself be dragged under over and over again until there was nothing left but the sensation of being  _ taken. _

‘KNOCK IT OFF, PERV.’ Penny. There. Thank god.

If anyone could throw cold water onto his arousal it would be Penny.

He shook himself out of it before he found himself discovered in a compromising position.

“Sorry.” Quentin said aloud to the empty room. And then again quieter. “Sorry.”

‘Keep your wet dreams to yourself man, it’s bad enough I had to go through puberty with you assholes. I’m surprised Josh made it out with his dick intact.’ Penny muttered almost to himself, like he was recalling one time that was particularly memorable.

A sudden spike of heat ran through Quentin’s whole body, coiling at the very core of him and then breaking apart over and over again. It cascaded outwards, every muscle going tight all at once and then rippling out over and over again. And then over and over again. Lord. He gripped the arm of the couch, feeling his cheeks rush with heat and his heartbeat pulse in his ears. He might have burst a blood vessel somewhere from trying to keep his mouth closed.

He heard a distinct groan from Penny and then the far-off echo of a throaty female giggle.

‘Jesus, she could give a guy a little warning.’ Penny said, clearing his throat.

“What the fuck was that?” Quentin jolted up in his seat, casting a frantic look around to make sure he was still alone. He’d somehow managed to keep his big mouth shut. He looked down at his own crotch, it was blessedly unaffected. Okay maybe some side effects of his meds were okay for something just this one time.

‘That was the ‘ _ Non-Stop Express to Orgasm Central’  _ as Margo calls it.’ Penny said, somehow seeming annoyed by the fact that they both had experienced a literal out of body orgasm. ‘You’d think I’d be used to it by now after all these years.’ and that was probably something he didn’t want Quentin to hear.

“Uh, is this something I need to be worried about?” Quentin asked. “I can’t have this happening in--uh, therapy or you know on the phone with my family and stuff.” or frankly when he wasn’t prepared for it. Because it was a force of _nature_.

Penny sighed, ‘Should tell you to fuck off, but I don’t need to deal with you too. You just--you just kinda project a vibe of ‘not right now’ you know? That should kinda cut it off from everyone else. Unless they’re not respecting that, which shouldn’t be a problem. All things considered, none of the cluster is gonna force anything on you. They’re okay.’

Quentin blinked. “Uh. Thanks. That was actually helpful, Penny.”

‘Literally never mention it. Ever again.’

Quentin nodded. Penny would probably understand.

‘For real though, you should go take a shower, man. It’s not a good look.’

Quentin huffed out a breath and did just that.

\---------

Quentin went through the motions of the rest of the night, feeling rattled by what had happened that afternoon. Still, he ate dinner with his plastic fork, not thinking about actual china plates and gold plated caviar spoons for reasons unknown.

He took his pills like a good boy. Opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue for the nurse to see he hadn’t chipmunked them in his cheek.

He took his shower even through the unnerving feeling of someone watching him despite the small stall and white plastic curtain.

That night, at lights out he was even wrung out enough that he left his flashlight under the bed, his book in its resting place on the small side table.

He listened to the quiet breathing of his roommate turn into the gentle wheezing of sleep that Quentin was trying not to get used to. He needed this place to keep its sense of surreal newness so that it wouldn’t become comfortable.

And as he laid there in the darkness, on the too-firm mattress, lumpy pillow under his head, he found himself wanting.

Not for the kind of attention that Eliot had brought to life, or that Margo had rekindled earlier today, or fucking set fire to with abandon later that day.

No. He didn’t want sex.

He wanted that reassuring feeling of comfort, Margo’s hands through his hair over and over again.

Quentin remembered Penny’s words from earlier, about ‘projecting a vibe’, cutting himself off to protect himself from outbursts he wasn’t ready for. If it was a two-way connection that he could shut off, then perhaps Quentin could put out a call for response?

Or was that asking too much?

These people, whoever were didn’t seem like the kind of people who wouldn’t tell him to fuck off it it was ‘too much’. Plus, you know. They were figments of his imagination.

So for just a moment, Quentin let himself want it, want that protection, that feeling he’d experienced only a few times on the rare occasion he’d let himself be needy, ask for it.

Quentin kept his eyes firmly shut as he felt the scratchy cotton under his cheek turn cool and almost like liquid. The blankets became heavier and the smell of herbal scented candles, and maybe even incense too hit his senses. He found himself snuggling deeper. And then he was distinctly aware of the other body curled up against his back. Only, Quentin was under the covers and someone was atop them, a barrier between them of Egyptian cotton and down comforter, making the contact fuzzy yet  _ there _ . Undeniable.

“It’s entirely too early for this.” Whiskey breath hit the back of his neck, springing up goosebumps in this wake.

Quentin’s body tensed from head to toe. Eliot. Quentin wondered what he looked like when he wasn’t clearly high out of his mind on something. Still, he kept his eyes closed.

“Don’t tease him.” Margo laughed. The bed shifted beneath them as her weight settled next to him. He felt her small hand worm its way under the covers to hold onto his, resting near Quentin’s chin. “He’s had a weird day.” She said, running her other hand in that familiar way across his bangs. He felt her leg tangle up with Eliot’s atop the covers.

“We’ve all had a weird day, Margo.” Eliot’s voice rumbled against Quentin’s ear, somehow much closer than it had been before. The tip of his slightly cold nose pressed to the delicate curve at the back of Quentin’s ear. A strong hand gripped his hip and squeezed once. Quentin shivered.

“None of that!” Margo chuckled and Quentin got the distinct impression that she swatted Eliot on the ass for his efforts. “Unless--”

“No.” Quentin said, his voice small in the darkness of his own making. “Not right now.”

Eliot sighed into his ear, a strong arm curling around Quentin’s middle, tugging him more firmly into the curve of his tall body. But the tone of the action was different. It was protective and practiced.

And Quentin let himself go.

“Mmm, you’re a compact little package.”

Yet another in a long line of phrases he never thought his brain capable of.

Quentin had been the ‘little spoon’ before. A few times. But that had always been in the rushed, awkward come-down after sex where he didn’t know if he should make himself scarce or how to get back into his underwear with his dignity intact.

This felt different. He’d voiced his expectations. Penny was right, they would respect that.

Quentin could let himself be cuddled, quite frankly. It seemed like there was nothing that Margo and Eliot did better than fucking elegance and casual intimacy. And that was weirdly the most ground-breaking realization he’d had--that Quentin wanted this part as much as he wanted to have sex. With either of them. With both. If he was being honest.

They were the product of synapses firing incorrectly or a chemical imbalance. Why couldn’t he want that? It wasn’t worse than a sex dream or a fantasy. It just felt so much more tangible, like it wouldn’t turn to nothing if his hands closed around it.

Eliot and Margo were talking in quiet tones above him. About fabrics and hems. Something about bootcut jeans coming back next season. “--Over my dead body.” was Eliot’s reply to that.

Through his mostly closed eyes, Quentin caught a flash of a dark canopy bed, swaths of luscious fabrics and what he was pretty sure was an honest to god oil lamp somewhere in the periphery.

Margo winked at him, her face a few scant inches away from his own.

“Just go to sleep, Q.” She said and then kissed both his eyelids like that was the end of it. “And then you and I can go downstairs and get  _ weird _ .” That was obviously for Eliot.

Eliot huffed out a sigh, the rumble of it cascaded down to Quentin’s toes.

“Of course, Bambi.”

But he sounded tired too.

\--------

Two bottles of expensive ass shampoo and conditioner arrived in the mail (overnighted!) the next day and it was a goddamn miracle that they didn’t explode when Quentin dropped them in surprise.

The note read, “You have no excuse now, XO Margo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Any comments you have are much appreciated! I'm enjoying the feedback so far on the first chapter! I have chapters 1-4 written and my plan is to post 1 or 2 a week depending on how much writing I get done!
> 
> XO


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin takes a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned into a real whopper! Please enjoy. I'm excited to get into the story properly.
> 
> Please be advised that this chapter contains a scene in which a character has a panic attack. If that is triggering to you, please use your discretion.

He needed a cigarette. Quentin needed a cigarette and a drink. He needed something to make it feel like the world wasn’t shaking apart.

The only thing that could have been worse than this being a figment of Quentin’s imagination was the fact that this could be  _ real _ . Real meant these people knew where he was and that he was in a mental hospital. Which was a private thing, you know? 

It meant that Eliot and Margo were actual real life people who had hit on him and (shudder)  _ held him _ . Penny was real and potentially had been listening in on their lives for much longer than just a week judging by his comments. 

Well that opened a porthole into a very alarming train of thought regarding the entirety of his short-yet disastrous dating history. And, you know. Private time.

Quentin was holding onto Margo’s note at the nurses station where patients could claim any care packages after they had been vetted to not be something the patients could use to hurt themselves. Which, you know, kinda felt like a violation of his rights, but so did having to stick out his tongue to prove he had taken his meds. Tomato  _ tomato. _

The nurse shot him a quick, concerned look and Quentin realized he had been standing there for a full minute reading a seven word note over and over again RE: broken brain.

“Thanks!” Quentin said, tucking both bottles under his arm and turning to rush down the hallway. Plan. Plan. He needed a plan.

He needed to talk to someone right the fuck now and it needed to be somewhere he wouldn’t need to worry about anyone overhearing and thus believing him to be  _ actually _ crazy rather than it seemed, somehow psychic? 

Or maybe just experiencing one of those breaks in the Matrix he used to read about on Reddit at 3 A.M. instead of working on a term paper. People seeing the same cat over and over again. People with no faces. Phones that would always ring at two in the morning.

Men with strong hands and rumbling voices.  _ Stop _ .

His room was out, as were any of the common areas of the hospital. He’d done a pretty good job of effecting what was hopefully only a depressed appearance. The second he started talking to himself there would be chatter of changing his meds, looking for another diagnosis, and his dad--

Quentin faltered in the hallway. 

He’d signed papers. 

Wanted to sign them. 

Still needed them.

But there were papers that said that even though Quentin was an adult, Ted Coldwater had the authority to order medical intervention for his son. This could go from temporary and  _ voluntary _ to something very different if someone could make his dad believe that Quentin had turned a corner on this reality.

It tugged at his heart a bit with worry. He wondered how much convincing his dad would need at this point. His mom would need none at all. 

That’s why her name wasn’t on the fucking paper.

Okay a plan. A plan.

Someplace to talk.

Quentin quickly deposited the bottles of shampoo and conditioner onto the small bathroom counter space allotted to him. Turning around, he shut the bathroom door behind him as he made his way back into the bedroom.

Wait.

The bathroom had a door, that privilege of privacy was still afforded to him, thank god. There was no lock but Quentin could just keep it down and if he started the shower--

It would have to do.

Quentin checked his schedule quickly. He had about half an hour before group therapy began. It would have to do. He could be quick.

Okay--the plan.

The plan began with Quentin starting the shower, shedding all his clothes and jumping in. Cocooned by the sound of water rattling off the sides of the shower and hitting his skin, he could move forward with the plan.

Though to be honest, this was about as far into the plan as he’d gotten.

Quentin rested his head against the linoleum wall of the small shower enclosure and took a deep breath, letting the hot water of the shower pound down his back.

“Okay. Hello? I need to talk to someone.” He said quietly. Let himself feel it, feel that need for communication, for someone to answer the call.

And then he felt a single fingertip travel down his neck, making a detour up and then down the sensitive skin behind his ear before continuing a leisurely journey over his shoulder and down his arm. Quentin shivered at the contact despite the heat of the water. 

He took an involuntary step backwards that put him into contact with miles of warm, smooth skin, broken up by the silken texture of body hair matted down in the water. He could feel the muscle groupings of a slender, yet strong skeletal structure. Jesus, he had firm thighs.

Please let it be Eliot.

But on the other hand, let it be anyone  _ other _ than Eliot.

“Ah jeez louise!” Quentin startled, pushing himself quickly away from the other body so quickly that he face-planted into the wall of the shower enclosure like a bird flying into a plate glass window.

“Jeez louise?” Eliot’s voice snorted behind him. A pair of hands gripped his shoulders and easily steadied him so that his feet wouldn’t go out from beneath him on the slippery shower floor.

Quentin knocked his own forehead against the wall gently just once as he realized the fatal flaw in his plan. Of course.  _ Of course _ . Of course whoever came to him would also show up in the shower. And because the world was a cruel place (as evidenced by what the FOX corporation had done to Firefly, Dollhouse, Almost Human, Minority Report, Sleepy Hollow, and Pitch) it would be Eliot who answered the call.

And it was then that Quentin realized that Eliot had a pretty good view of Quentin’s ass, or at least the top of it considering how fucking tall he was.

So Quentin faced the music and turned around, because it was probably better to be face-to-face for this conversation.

But that meant he had to actually  _ look _ at Eliot. Eliot, wet in the shower, his hair plastered to his head, one sopping ringlet of hair falling over his amused eyes. Eliot who had chest hair now that Quentin could see him sans vest, shirt, and tie. 

He wore too many clothes for a man who should always just be naked.

Oh fuck, Penny was probably hearing all of this.

Eliot reached out and pressed a curious finger to the hollow of Quentin’s collarbone, tracing the curvature of the bone there. Quentin’s fucking knees almost buckled right there.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Eliot said through that smirk plastered to his face. And then he very clearly gave Quentin the elevator eye. He moved with the smooth languid confidence of a man who’d had a three martini lunch.

Quentin flushed and it had nothing to do with the water temperature.

He tried not to fidget, still, his hands flexed at his sides nervously at the other man’s appraisal. 

This very real man. 

It bared repeating that theoretically Eliot could now identify Quentin’s body based on the birthmark on his hip alone.

“Yup, definitely surprising.” Eliot said, his voice coming out huskily, he raised his eyebrows in a knowing way. 

Quentin, being the owner of his body, rolled his eyes at that. He didn’t think he was particularly unattractive, but there was nothing surprising about what he looked like naked. He didn’t have washboard abs or a third nipple or anything.

But then Eliot’s looking made it seem like fair game to do his own peeking. And so Quentin did, for about a second before he fell into the abyss and would never be able to _stop_ _looking_. He wrenched his eyes away from the other man’s body and focused on the space over Eliot’s left shoulder when it was all over. He looked anywhere other than the (and it couldn’t be understated) _miles_ of skin bared to Quentin’s gaze.

It had been enough time to take in the impressions of a broad set of shoulders, the soft definition of his biceps and strong forearms. Long-fingered hands that matched his narrow, delicate feet. All of Eliot was long and lean, relaxed. 

Languid. 

Quentin was pretty sure he’d never used that word in his entire like and yet that was just so  _ Eliot _ . Languid. He would have been at home stretched out on the settee of a Victorian drawing room where he’d never have to lift a finger if he didn’t want to. Or taking in the sea air, coughing delicately into an embroidered handkerchief--

Oh and Eliot had an absolutely huge dick. Even in its casual interest in the subject of being naked in a shower with Quentin: huge.

It was actually kind of shocking that he didn’t have to check it to get onto a plane.

And if Eliot had been smirking before, now he looked like a cat who’d eaten the canary. Just absolutely pleased with himself.

“Yeah, that’s not a surprise.” Eliot said, this time about his own body. And they both knew what he was inferring.

The space station probably knew.

Lord.

Genetics really played fast and loose with what was really  _ fair _ in terms of beauty and --you know, size.

And then Eliot just kinda tilted his head and  _ looked _ again, at all of Quentin.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Quentin spluttered, slicking his own hair back from his face. He knew he didn’t look nearly as sexy as Eliot, more like a Cabbage Patch Kid someone had dropped in a puddle.

Eliot’s head quirked to the side. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“This,” Quentin gestured wildly (but not too wildly. Re: small shower stall) to all of the man before him. “With the bedroom eyes, and all the touching. It’s  _ distracting _ .” He pointedly didn’t mention Eliot’s dick and for that he should have gotten some kind of award.

“Honey,” Eliot snorted and it was somehow charming, “everything about me is  _ bedroom _ . I’m a tactile creature, what can I say? But if you don’t want me to, fine. Consider me as hands-off as a Fitswilliam Darcy. Eliot’s eyes got that glassy look, recalling a fond memory. “Though, I could do the walking out of the pond in a wet shirt scene though--that was an iconic moment of my childhood.” 

“That’s not what I--” Quentin stammered.

“Oh so you do want me to touch you?” Eliot said, playing coy now. Asshole.

“I do, just--uh I’m trying to process all of this and when you keep--” Quentin said, his thoughts jumbling in his head as he now would never be able to part the image of Eliot in a billowing white shirt. Soaking wet. Striding towards him. Nope!

Eliot’s eyes quickly dropped their mirth. “Okay. Got it. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

“Wrong time.” Quentin repeated quietly.

“Okay.  _ Wrong time _ .” Eliot said. “Would that mean there’s gonna be a right time I could pencil into my calendar?”

Quentin hastily shook his head, remembering the whole borrowed time thing. “Yes--ah. Just not--here. We can’t do this here. I can’t think here. Can we go to you?” Quentin tried to keep his voice as level as possible.

“Ugh, fine.” Eliot rolled his eyes and raised his hands, clapping them twice in quick succession.

Oh no.

They were on a stage. An empty fucking stage where a single light up in the catwalk illuminated Eliot, sprawled on a golf cart of all things. And to top it all off, Eliot was--shit, Eliot was languishing across the seat of the frankly  _ ridiculous _ golf cart of all things. He had a pair of aviator sunglasses perched on his nose below a white fucking sailor hat. A sailor hat. The kind of hat that Quentin saw about during Fleet Week in New York City when the city was besieged by handsome young Navy officers looking to just devastate everyone who saw them.

So the hat should have prepared Quentin for the rest of Eliot. However, it did not.

No.

The hat matched the rest of the uniform. A short-sleeved white shirt, tailored within an inch of its life across Eliot’s broad shoulders. There were epaulets. EPAULETS _. _ And tiny gold buttons that closed the twin pockets on either side of the man’s chest. Quentin could tell even from Eliot’s lounging that the fabric of this shirt nipped in at his waist.

And his legs. Jesus. Eliot’s long, long legs were encased in just a masterpiece of slim white trousers. He even made the white loafers on his long, narrow feet look dashing. 

That was the new word. Eliot was just  _ dashing _ in a way like he was about to sweep someone off their feet. Literally.

And Quentin. Quentin realized in the chilled, still air of the theater that he was just as naked and dripping with water as he had been moments ago in the shower.

“Oh, come on!” Quentin whined, actually stomping his foot.

This was an actual dream he’d had in 7th grade. Only blessedly, this time they were alone and his entire school wasn’t in the audience.

“Quentin, you are absolutely no fun at all.” Eliot said.

But Eliot took mercy on him. Not before pointedly slipping the sunglasses down his nose to look pointedly at him again. He snapped his fingers and Quentin was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. No shoes.

Eliot sighed like he just positively couldn’t hold in his disappointment at the turn of events. He took his hat off, his hair was carefully slicked back from his face, parted to one side.

Seriously un-fucking-fair.

Fucking dashing.

“I’m Eliot.” He said after a long moment of appraisal.

“Yeah, I know that.” Quentin couldn’t stop himself from saying.

Eliot shrugged, pulling a silver case from the pocket of his sinfully tight pants along with a lighter. He slipped a cigarette between his lips while Quentin quietly questioned the attractiveness of every other person he’d ever seen before.

“Yes, but I didn’t get to say it in the first place when we met. So I’m saying it now. It’s only polite.” Eliot said this entirely while the cigarette between his lips trembled up and down with his words. “Now, young Quentin, you said you needed to talk?”

Quentin stared at the silver case and lighter sitting on the seat of the golf cart beside Eliot’s hip.

“Can I have one of those?” he asked, gesturing to the case.

“I don’t know, can you?” Eliot asked, but it seemed from his expression that he too wasn’t sure of the answer. Still, he sat up and patted the warm vinyl of the seat beside him.

Quentin scrunched in beside Eliot, relishing the feeling of the smoke in his lungs when he took a cigarette from Eliot and then accepted a light from the antique lighter between them. The first lung-full burned like hell. There was no filter or what the were was, did absolutely nothing.

“Like, am I absorbing the nicotine in your bloodstream right now?” Quentin pondered around the drag and a cough. “When I’m gone will the cigarette still be in your case? Was I doing coke when I met you?”

The unasked question: Were they all under the effects of Quentin’s antidepressants?

“It’s far too fucking early for this conversation, Q.” Eliot said, and then he pulled out a flask because it must not be too fucking early for a drink, huh?

Quentin ashed his cigarette in a plastic cup he noticed in the cupholder of the golf cart, several butts were already resting there. “I mean, if I can be here, feel --uh-- things sometimes,” Massive earth shattering orgasms out of nowhere, “if I can touch you, and you can touch me, or Penny can shout at me without being there at  _ all _ , I really don’t know what anything about  _ anything  _ anymore.” Quentin rambled, pausing to take a drag here and there. He really should be savoring this. He had been doing so well with quitting.

“Yes, it makes you wonder whether all our parents dropped the same acid when we were in utero.” Eliot said, punctuated with a faraway look and another sip from his flask.

Quentin felt a firm flash of cold anger rush through him out of nowhere.

Eliot shook his head, “Sorry, I’ll get that for you.” He said it like he was cleaning up a spill. And maybe he was in a way.

Eliot took a second and centered himself. When he met Quentin's eyes again, he had that devil may care light behind them again.

Quentin could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“You’re real.”

Eliot just nodded. 

Quentin shivered.

Fuck. 

He took another drag of his cigarette. He looked anywhere than Eliot’s eyes. 

“You’re not like--a sailor are you?” Quentin asked, a pretty fair question.

“Fuck no.” Eliot exhaled a stream of smoke through his nose. “That would be the most fucking challneging role of my lifetime.” Eliot leaned to the side, a long arm snatched up a scraggly looking bound set of papers off the stage floor.

He unceremoniously dropped the bundle into Quentin’s lap. It was a script. ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ the title stood out starkly on the cover page against a slightly scuffed and penmarked white page. Below that something caught his eye: ‘Adapted for the  Noël Coward Theatre Production. London, England.’

Quentin flipped randomly through the script, noting that every page was covered in extensive notes in tight, block letters as well as yellow highlighter.

“You’re an actor.” Quentin said.

Eliot snorted. “Professionally too.” A pointed jab and one that Quentin wasn’t sure he deserved. Eliot screwed up the side of his mouth for a quick second before it was smoothed over, back to his look of casual impassiveness.

Feeling warm, embarrassed at his closeness to the other man and Eliot’s obvious annoyance, Quentin stood up from the seat and paced bach and forth in the lighted circle cast from overhead. Other props were scattered about on stage. A pair of white chaise lounge chairs. A cart that looked like it was covered in cans of paint.

“This is what, some adaptation of The Bard where you’re all--”

Eliot nodded, flicking his cigarette elegantly into the cup. “Yeah. Set ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ at a resort, up the camp factor by about 1000%. Give the boy a prize.”

Quentin pointed at him. “ Benedick.”

“Naturally.”

And the practically growled word coupled with a ‘who me?’ shrug from the other man made Quentin feel just about as naked as he’d been moments ago.

“This is so fucking weird.” Quentin said, mostly to himself.

“Mmmmm.” Eliot nodded, taking another sip from his flask. Nonchalant. “Yesterday I think I performed a successful tracheotomy. At least, I hope it was sucessful. Kinda had to get the hell out of there.”

“Okay,” Quentin said, it was time to get down to business. They were on the clock. “You gotta level with me here, you and Margo don’t seem surprised at all by any of this. Penny seemed pretty fucking surprised that I was there, and Julia--” it came out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. He hadn’t had time to actually contemplate that seeing her, being with her on her fire escape had been real, “Oh shit. Julia. I know her. Like know her, know her. This seems like too crazy of a coincidence.”

Eliot rocked his hand back and forth, “Margo and I met in undergrad. Best friends. Soulmates are Bambi and I. A week ago I did a line in at an afterparty’s afterparty and then you’re staring at me in the mirror. All ‘Girl, Interrupted’ with the big eyes. Thought I’d finally killed enough of my brain cells that I was a goner. But then Margo told me she’d been with your Julia-- at a Knicks game of all places.” He took a sip from the flask and offered it to Quentin. Quentin refused. Couldn’t risk going to group visibly tipsy if that’s how this worked. “I think we seek out people we’re compatible with. Those whose hearts mirror our own. I’m just lucky I found margo when I did.” he said wistfully. 

That last part, though. That seemed far more vulnerable than Quentin was sure Eliot had meant to sound.

Quentin took a moment to think about that. The complete trust that he and Julia fell into their friendship with as children, how it had sustained even through life changes and well--everything Quentin had put her through. Their shorthand. The way that she just  _ knew _ what he needed and what he was thinking.

“Plus you know the whole magic thing probably has something to do with it.” Eliot said off-handedly on an exhale.

Quentin nearly swallowed his cigarette, coughing.

When he was able to breath again, he stomped back to Eliot and slapped his hands down on the other man’s shoulders, leaning across the confines of the small cart. Eliot looked pointedly at the cigarette shaking between Quentin’s fingers, the cherry leaning dangerously close to the perfect fabric of his crisp white shirt. He plucked the cigarette from Quentin’s fingers, casually dropping it into the plastic cup.

“What the--what the fuck are you talking about?”

_ Knew it. Knew it. Knew it _ . Went the little voice in his head.

‘SHUT UP. TUNE OUT.’ Went Penny.

Eliot raised his chin a bit at Quentin but did nothing to remove his hands from his person. “Magic, Quentin. It stands to reason that if I can do this-” he raised both hands, moving them in a practiced way (still with his cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand) and the cigarette case snapped open, ten little white cigarette soldiers spinning in a halo over Eliot’s head. He snapped and they stopped, held perfectly in midair. He dropped his hands, the cigarettes zoomed back to their case, easy as anything. Mary Poppins bullshit.

“-and Margo can enchant her ass off, and Alice and turn invisible when she wants, the eight of us sharing a psychic party line doesn’t seem so preposterous.” Eliot flicked his cigarette to join Quentin’s. He stared at Quentin for a long moment. “You look like you’re gonna puke and the only kind of gag reflex I have is a sympathetic one. So spill. What got a bee in your bonnet, Q?”

Quentin opened and closed his mouth several times in a row, for once at a total loss for words and a big fat fucking tear rolled down his cheek without his consent.

He felt a familiar splash of wonder hit him. Quentin fell into a hazy memory. 

_ He’s looking at the pages of test book, the formation of the letters changing before his very eyes. He’s washed away as easily as the words. _

_ Quentin hears a voice through the fog. A man nonchalantly speaking to him about disappointment. _

_ And then there had been some sort of a crystal? _

Quentin dropped back into his body, heart ratcheting up to a different frequency.

“F-fuck.” Quentin wrenched his hands from the firm expanse of Eliot’s shoulders like he’d been burned, harshly wiping the back of his hand over his face. Tension racked across his shoulders until he felt so brittle that the smallest nudge might just send him to pieces.

_ A pack of cards slamming onto the table before him. A ringing voice in his ear. Quentin’s hands shaking at his sides. All of it coalescing into a big fat--nothing. _

He needed to get away, needed--

“Quentin--” Eliot snagged one of Quentin’s wrists. His long fingers curled around the delicate bones there, probably getting a real crash course in the pulsing thump of Quentin’s rising heart rate.

“I --ahh, need. I can’t.”

And he was breathing in great gasping gouts, though it did nothing to halt the feeling that his chest was going to just supernova in on itself.

“Okay, Q. Just tell me what you need.” Eliot again, his face pale and concerned in the narrowing field of Quentin’s vision. Dashing.

“ _ I’m not going to lie. This is quite the disappointment.” A low voice. The clearing of a throat. Polished buttons on a grey windowpane suit. “Strange. We’re experiencing a higher rate of failures this year.” The offhandedness of it, a punch in the gut. _

“He’s having a panic attack, Eliot. Get him on the ground before he falls.” A small nasal voice sounded from a little ways away. Quentin barely registered the sound of two feet stomping along the worn, wooden floor of the stage towards them.

A pair of small, cold hands wrapped around his other wrist, helping to guide his useless limbs down to the ground. Eliot slung a strong arm wrapped around his waist. They made it down onto the firm floor, the chill of the wood seeping into his clothes.

“You’re gonna be fine, Quentin.” The new woman said. Quentin took in her straight platinum blonde hair and the focused look in her eyes behind the square lenses of her glasses.

If Quentin’s logical side had been operating, he would know this. This was not his first panic attack. Not in the slightest.

As it was, he was a frayed, raw nerve. An animal hindbrain caught up in a feedback loop of useless panic response.

Two sets of strong hands manipulated him into position. Quentin was pretty sure he was sitting in a close approximation of Eliot’s lap, his hips wedged between Eliot’s long legs. Eliot’s hand wide open across his vulnerable belly over the fabric of his shirt, the other guiding Quentin’s head between his own knees, a warm pressure cuffing around the back of his clammy neck. Quentin couldn’t help but think of the starched white fabric of Eliot’s costume and the scuffed floor they were both now sitting on.

The girl pressed two fingers to the pulse point in Quentin’s neck and he was pretty sure that she was checking her watch.

Oh no. The time.

But that was a passing thought in a maelstrom of realizations. That he had been  _ right _ his whole time. Magic was real. He’d felt so wrong and incomplete and  _ useless _ for so long. And the worst part was that all this was real and Eliot could fucking levitate shit and--

\--And Quentin had  _ nothing _ .

Could do nothing.

Was nothing.

_ He was pleading. His voice coming out in big wet gasps. Because it was real. All of it. And he had known. And now he’d have to go back. _

_ They couldn’t just expect him to go back to the real world knowing--he’d  _ die.

‘You didn’t die though. You lived, Quentin.’ Penny’s voice spilled out among those with him in the theater and the strange half-remembered truth of his memory.

The girl was murmuring things to him like “Take a deep breath, slowly.” “There you go.” “It’s okay.” and “Don’t hold it in. Blow out birthday candles for me.”

Quentin breathed in big, breathed out between puckered lips. Muscle memory from from this happening all too often.

Eliot for once, was silent, rubbing his back in slow circles.

_ “It has to be done.” _

_ And then. _

_ “You won’t even know that it happened.” _

That’s where it ended. Like the brief moment of static on the end of a tape.

Quentin was abruptly aware of the cooling sweat gathering in his armpits and across his forehead.

The blonde woman took her hands away from him.

“I think he’s coming down now. I’ll be right back, just hold him. Keep him calm.”

Quentin wanted to say something about them talking about him while he was  _ right there _ but she was correct. He could feel himself coming back to a place that wasn’t an airless void. His thoughts were still rumbling, echoing catastrophe and negativity.

He made a vague, non-committal movement to leave Eliot’s grasp.

“Don’t get squirmy on me, Coldwater.” Eliot’s chest vibrated against his back as he reeled Quentin back in as easily as capturing a kitten. Quentin found himself reclined back against the other man’s chest, one hand held wide open like a starfish against Quentin’s breastbone, the other just gently holding Quentin’s hand now. Their fingers were interlocked, the edges of Eliot's various rings pressing into the skin there, leaving distinct impressions.

“I just--I ah.” Quentin had to take a breath to get himself somewhat under control. His throat was so fucking dry. “I just totally lost it--huh.”

Eliot’s forehead made distinct contact with Quentin’s shoulder, he could feel the flutter of long eyelashes against the sensitive skin of his neck. It made him shiver. 

“It’s okay, doll. We’ve all been there.”

And somehow Quentin knew that was true.

The feeling of Eliot’s breath sent tremors down his arms. The vague smell of whiskey on his breath burned in Quentin’s nose.

He squeezed Eliot’s hand.

“Don’t call me doll.” Quentin grumbled. 

“Okay, sweetheart. Never again will the words cross my lips.” Eliot said. He squeezed Quentin in with the one arm holding him and the long legs cradled around him. A quick, sharp squeeze.

Quentin actually chuckled at that.

The girl flickered into being before both of them. She was holding a small white envelope in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Here. Take this.” She said, dropping a familiar pill into his hand from the envelope. Quentin did without complaint, reaching for the glass of water. Now free, Eliot’s other hand had wrapped around Quentin’s forearm, supporting it to negate some of the shakes that were happening.

“Uh, voice of reason here,” Eliot said. “But how is giving him an imaginary Xanax going to do any good?” Of course Eliot also recognized the pill. It stood to reason if he was drinking in the middle of the day and doing lines of coke in a bathroom at midnight that he might also be well versed in recognizing prescription medicines.

The girl narrowed her eyes at Eliot. “Quentin didn’t take it, I just did. I think it should help.” She explained. “I just violated HIPAA by the way.” She touched his cheek briefly and then pulled her hand away just as quickly to adjust her glasses. A white laminated name tag swung in his field of vision. A dark blue embroidered name on a pair of light blue scrubs.

“You’re a doctor?” Quentin asked.

The girl shook her head, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Resident. I’m Alice. Quentin, I’m sorry, I had to look up your medical record. Took me a bit longer than I expected.”

He wouldn’t even begin to unpack that. No thanks.

“Alice.” Quentin parroted back at her. “Thanks.”

He melted back into Eliot for a second, let Alice take his pulse again. He watched her furrow her eyebrows in concentration as she glared down at the face of her watch.

The time!

Quentin snatched her wrist towards him, “Sorry, I just-- I need to check the time.”

Oh thank god, it was only 11:05.

He let out a sign of relief and relaxed back into Eliot for a blessed second.

“I’m on a time-crunch here, I need to get back before therapy starts at 11:30.” Quentin sighed.

Eliot made a concerned sound behind him, and jeez louise, Quentin needed to get out from between this man’s legs at some point soon. Even if Eliot’s hands were doing a lot to quiet the aftershocks that wracked his system.

“Sweetheart, it’s 12:10 in New York City--” Eliot pulled an honest to god pocket watch out and held it in front of his face. Quentin jolted--

Romantic-ass Eliot with his watch set to the city that never sleeps. What the hell?

Sweetheart?!

“But--”

Alice shook her head. “Quentin. I’m in Chicago. Different timezones!”

And  _ that was a lot  _ to unpack.

“I  _ need.  _ I have to go!” Quentin scrambled out of Eliot’s arms. He briefly heard two voices call out on alarm but--

All he needed was the thought and the movement carried him right back into the shower stall, his body listing to the side against the wall. Knees practically up against his chest, with his back pressed to the wall. He must have slid down here at some point while he was with Eliot. The water was just as hot as he left it when he turned it on. Quentin’s skin was sensitive and red from the temperature. Over an hour. He’d been gone for over an hour.

The Xanax was taking root in a familiar way, ramping down his heart rate, making everything a bit fuzzy around the edges. He wondered if Alice was as used to this as he was, if she needed the chemical intervention of drugs to soften out the edges of her mind every once and awhile.

‘FOCUS.’ Penny came through. He always started things off in the most bombastic ways. ‘Man, your brain is wide open and spilling all over everyone right now. Pull your shit together.’

And okay. Rude.

He took a deep breath and pulled his aching limbs back under his own control, his knees popped in protest. Was 26 too early to declare himself an old man?

‘Get your feet under you and your ass to therapy before they lock you in a padded cell.’

Quentin really didn’t need to consider that possibility any more than he already was. So he rushed through getting out of the bathroom as quickly as he could, toweling off in quick, efficient movements. He tried to project an aura of  _ Leave me the Fuck Alone  _ in the nicest way possible to Eliot, Margo, Penny, Julia, and now Alice. (How many people was he supposed to keep track of? Had he heard of a Josh as well?)

All he could do was hope they’d get the message. The last thing he needed was one of them popping up naked or singing or high in the middle of group therapy.

By the time he was shoving his feet into the sneakers (no laces) sitting by the end of his bed, he was well and truly, inexcusably late. He’d barely make the last 15 minutes if he ran across the facility.

He spared a moment to run a hand through his still mostly damp hair in the mirror. Were his eyes extra glassy or was he just imagining things?

Quentin could do this. He’d been attempting to fake an outwardly normal appearance for most of his life at this point, right? He could go to group therapy fresh off the cusp of finding out that magic was real, that he was psychically linked to what just might be the most brusk and horny (?) group of people he’d ever met. Though, maybe that was just Eliot and Margo casting a shadow on the entire group.

And the first thing he would do when he got done would be to call to Julia. In real life. On the phone. He needed to get to her of all people. She’d know what to do.

Quentin jogged down the hallway, throwing on the same grey zip-up hoodie as usual. A nurse gave him the  _ really, here? _ eyebrow as he passed the nurses station. He slowed to a walk, though as fast a walk as possible.

There was a single chair open in the circle when he got there. Quinten scrambled to it, feeling more like he’d been caught in a high school stress dream somehow then when he’d been naked in the middle of a city park earlier that day.

“Nice of you to join us, Quentin.” The facilitator greeted in a carefully manufactured tone. He knew he would be hearing about this later.

Quentin did the ‘good patient’ thing. He answered questions. He nodded in appropriate places. He focused on the right eyebrow of the facilitator so his eyes wouldn’t glaze over. Still, he couldn’t stop the constant jiggling of his knee up and down.

He had things to do regardless of his general mental state. He could table the whole depression thing at the moment.

Group ended on a familiar note, the facilitator closing her notebook, snapping the band around the cover in finality.

Someone knocked on the open doorway a couple times, two simple raps against the metal doorframe. It was such a dad sound, an ‘I’m coming in, Buddy.’ sound.

“Hey guys, I just wanted to pop in and introduce myself, I’m the new chaplain--” the voice rang into the room.

Quentin, in the middle of standing up from his chair, turned to observe the speaker.

He got about this far: New Balance sneakers, corduroy pants, a rumpled navy knit sweater, half-smirk, daddy-vibe (Christ, Eliot was rubbing off on him), and green eyes.

“--I’m Richard.”

Then Quentin was somehow across the room, standing beside the man, watching the rest of the group staring at him with various expressions of boredom and disinterest. Quentin saw himself, the slightly darker grey of his hoodie around the collar where his hair had dripped into it, the dead look that glazed over his eyes. Helplessly, he watched as his own knees buckled, his body falling to the ground in a graceless pile of limbs.

Quentin vaguely felt the impact of his temple on the corner of the chair and then the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliot's role of Benedick in 'Much Ado About Nothing' is based on the staged production from 2011, starring David Tennant and Catherine Tate. It is available on Youtube to watch if you are interested! I highly recommend it. It is my favorite staged production of all time. They are both so lovely and I couldn't help but throw Eliot into that setting.
> 
> Your feedback has been lovely. Please drop a comment and let me know what you think of the story so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk in the park. Terrible news. And an old friend comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is here. This chapter deals with the darker aspects of the episode, 'The World in the Walls' from the first season of The Magicians as well as Nomi's storyline from Season 1 of Sense8. Just be warned that Quentin's autonomy in making his own decisions regarding his own care is pretty clearly taken away. If this is triggering to you, please take care.

Quentin was in a hazy stage of wakefulness. The place where dreams had since ended but his conscious mind picked up the slack and tried to propel the plot forward. He was aware of his body, the ache in his head. The leaden bones of his body not cooperating. Unmoving.

But then he was walking in a park alongside another body. It was a cool September afternoon. The trees hadn’t decided to drop their leaves yet but that crisp smell was in the air nonetheless. Kids were shrieking and chasing each other while mothers and nannies looked on. Which, you know, given his circumstances was actually kind of nice to see. 

“I thought you’d come.” A voice said, walking in time with Quentin. Headphones in his ears, Richard looked over at him with a wry smile. They kept walking side by side.

Quentin didn’t have the energy to explain how little of a choice he had in  _ any _ of this. 

“You’re--” Quentin began, stopped and then took another breath. “You’re like me.”

That seemed like a logical starting point. There.

The man nodded, contrite. “I have to apologize Quentin, I had no idea you’d react the way that you did. You’re--sensitive. Far more so than I was prepared for.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. It was par for the fucking course.

“I’m not going to lie, we have a very limited time here. I can’t keep you for long.” Richard said, then motioned to a bench tucked to the side of a small walking path. “You’ve been unconscious for hours. Sometimes when we meet each other--it can be--it's jarring.”

Quentin threw himself down onto the bench gracelessly. There was no one to watch him after all apart from Richard. What the hell did he care?

“But I didn’t  _ know _ you already.” Quentin said. He didn’t have the language for what he really meant. Richard didn’t seem familiar in that way that Eliot, Margo, and Alice had when he’d first set eyes on them. It was almost like he’d been trying to find them in a crowd for years. Forever. Each part of them was so familiar and yet surprising. A plot thread freshly discovered in a novel read dozens of times.

Huge fucking plot twist he should have seen coming.

But then also, how  _ could _ he have seen this coming?

“No. You don’t. I’m from a different Cluster--a different group. We call them Clusters. I don’t really know why.” Richard said, exasperated. His eyes following a young couple tugging a couple kids in a wagon down the path. “But if we meet other people like us, we can visit with them just like you can with the rest of your cluster. Only--it's like being on phone call instead of a full VR experience. I can’t trade places with you--can’t take over your body the way that the rest of your cluster can.”

He remembered moments of quiet ritual. Being Margo brushing her hair. The feeling of the brush in his hand and the different weight to his body. How even sitting down he’d felt his center of gravity even lower in his pelvis. A painted pink smirk in the mirror.

“They haven’t taken over--” Quentin said, running a hand through his hair. It was getting too long. “Not like forever, right?”

Richard shook his head, shot Quentin a guilty look. “No. It takes a lot of energy, plus you have your own body to contend with back home, all of its own needs. But in a pinch it can be helpful.”

“Yeah, like if I needed to perform CPR, then Alice could--”

“Don’t talk about them,” Richard said sharply, a hand held up. “You’re brand new to this, I get that. But I  _ just _ met you. You don’t know what kind of person I am. Rule number 1. Protect your cluster. There are people--other clusters even--who make it their mission to hunt down our kind. So never reveal anything about your cluster to an outsider, not unless you really trust them.”

Quentin looked sharply at the man, scooting a bit down the bench, away.

“You’re telling me I’m in some kind of Matrix level conspiracy?” Quentin said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips.

“Ahh--it’s more like an X-Men situation? Like with the Sentinels?” Richard said, with a considering look on his face.

“So these people, this great big shadowy force, they’re hunting down clusters. Using  _ other _ people like us to do it and you  _ just _ showed up out of nowhere.” Quentin said, “Ah--feels like I should just cut my losses completely and like get the hell out of here before you suck my brain out through my ear or whatever.”

Richard scoffed.

“Julia told me this was about how it was going to go.” The older man said, a small smirk formed on his face.

Quentin’s ears perked up despite the coldness he felt at the warning Richard had given him. “Julia--I need to talk to her.”

Richard nodded tightly. “You do--you really do. She’s ah--she’s sorta busy at the minute.” his eyes went far away for a brief moment. The older man focused on the middle distance.

He chuckled.

“She’s at the hospital. She’s looking for you.”

Fuck, could Richard see Julia right now? And how was he sitting up straight and not passed the hell out like Quentin had in the past. Looking at Richard though, the other man was older than Quentin by at least 10 years, that might mean he has more experience with  _ visiting _ . That’s what Richard had called it. Visiting.

“Jules--you gotta be careful.” Richard said, but his eyes were straight forward. He wasn’t speaking to Quentin. Quentin noticed that Richard hadn’t taken his headphones out. Maybe they were a good camouflage for being in public. People would just think he was on a phone call, his smartphone in his pocket. “That’s--yeah, that’s him.” A pause. “Julia, get the hell out of there now.  _ Now.  _ Just trust me here. Go back to the Library. I’ll meet you there.” A longer pause. “Yeah--yes. Okay. I’ll tell him. Now go home.”

Richard snapped back into his body, a small shiver running through him. He clapped his palms down on his own thighs, turning to Quentin was a serious expression.

“Quentin. I need you to focus. We have  _ minutes _ .” Richard said, his blue eyes crystalizing into ice. “Someone is coming. The next doctor you see--you can’t trust him. You just can’t. I don’t know everything. But I know this guy is bad news. Get out of the hospital however you can, okay? Don’t let anyone see you use magic, then they’ll know  _ for sure _ that you're the real deal. Remember rule number 1. Okay--”

“But I don’t have any magic. I don’t--” Quentin argued, his voice rising an octave.

Richard held his hands out, flexing them like he was going to touch him, thinking better of it at the last moment.

“Quentin. I’m sorry this is happening so quickly, but you  _ do _ . You are absolutely positively infused with magic. In your every cell. It’s not fair that you haven’t gotten to learn how to channel it, but it’s  _ there _ .” Richard said, his tone had the kind of firm cadence that reminded Quentin of his father. The time Quentin couldn’t get out of bed and Ted had just  _ told _ him that the dark cloud wasn’t going to take his son away. Big dad energy. “Now you need to be really smart about this. Use them--”

And then the dull ache in his head was coalescing into a pounding, tangible thing that radiated behind his eyes. Quentin blinked his eyes open to the dull beeping of a heart monitor.

He was in a small hospital room, the curtains drawn. Sickly beige walls. A fluorescent light over the bed that flickered every few seconds. By far not the worst place Quentin had ever woken up, but a far cry from his room at the clinic. That seemed positively cozy in comparison.

There was a phone next to the bed on the small bedside table, there was no dial tone when Quentin picked it up. Fuck.

Quentin looked down at his body, at the scratchy blankets pulled up to his chest, the IV in his arm connected to a bag in a locked case on the stand by the bed. It was a thoughtless thing, to pull the IV from his body, press his fingers tightly to the puncture as he struggled to get his uncooperating limbs off of the bed. Several leads tugged at the skin of his forehead, taped down to monitor some kind of brain activity. Quentin tore them off with a huff, ignoring the sting. The heart monitor on his finger slipped off, tugging the monitor forward for a few inches. He stumbled to the door, loosely aware of the draft caused by the open back of the hospital gown he wore.

His fingertips pressed into the taped down dressing on the side of his head, right over the ache. There would be time to access the damage later. He had to be smart now. Like Richard said. Get out.

He crossed the floor in three long strides, his hand trembling as it reached out for the handle to the door. Locked. Fuck.

_ No. No. No. _

Richard's words echoed in his ears. 

Don’t let anyone see him do magic. Not a problem.

Protect the cluster. Right.

Get out. 

Now that posed a problem with the locked door and no way to contact the outside world. His phone was back with his personal effects at the Midtown Mental Health Clinic where he’d turned them in. He couldn’t text anyone--

“Help.” It was a sad little slip of a word, bubbling from his lips and into the otherwise silent room. “I need help. Okay?”

Quentin had never hated anything more than the way his voice cracked on that last word.

Margo was right. He always seemed to be on the verge of tears--but if he could just get Eliot in here he could maybe seduce his way out of here somehow? Just roll a natural 20 on his charisma check and saunter out of this hospital room. Or maybe Margo could help him  _ demand _ to speak to someone in charge and she’d give him the confidence and just relentless attitude to talk his way out here. Get all Penny on the doctors and just fucking  _ shout _ \--

No, that wouldn’t help at all.

And then a key pressed into the lock on the other side of the door and the handle turned--

Quentin jumped back, his feet kept from sliding by the grippy bottom of his hospital socks.

Dr. Brown walked in with a man in a white lab coat, thick glasses with black frames on his face. Salt and pepper hair. He looked a bit like Patrick Dempsey if Quentin squinted. His stomach went sour.

“Quentin.” Dr. Brown motioned for him to sit back in the bed. She seemed exceedingly reasonable about the fact that Quentin was out of bed and had clearly torn off his heart monitor and IV. He looked between the two of them. Dr. Brown and all of her cool, but rational demeanor. She’d been better to him than a lot of his doctors had before. She’d listened to his full story before making any kind of suggestion or comment. He had to believe now that she’d be his ally in this. 

The other doctor, well he must have been the one that Richard warned him about. A chill ran down Quentin’s spine. He wished he could snap his fingers and throw the man across the room, run out the door. But that wasn’t going to happen.

Quentin would need to play this smart. He wouldn’t get anywhere with force or aggression. He was a clever guy, reminded of Jane Chatwin during her many adventures--he’d have to rely on his wits to talk himself out of this situation.

Surely if he proved he was in his right mind--they couldn’t--

So Quentin backed across the room, aware once again of the breeze down his back, and thanking whatever higher power there was that he was still wearing his boxers. He went until he felt the rail of the bed against his thighs, maneuvering around to the side where he could sit down on the edge of the bed, feeling like a kid at summer camp. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Ah, why is my door locked?” Quentin asked.

The man spoke now, “Mr. Coldwater, My name is Dr. Pierce, I’ve been brought onto your case from the neuroscience department. I’d like to talk to you about the results of your MRI.”

And man, Quentin couldn’t help but notice how his question had been utterly ignored. Tension coiled throughout his body.

Plus, you know. Not it was  _ great _ to hear he’d been subjected to medical testing without his consent. Even if he hated MRIs. He didn’t want to think about what he looked like, his pale feet sticking out of the bottom of the machine, all vulnerable. He shuddered at the thought.

“Quentin,” Dr. Brown sat down in the little chair near the bed that was usually reserved for family spending time with a patient. “I need you to know that you are in the best hands possible. I am going to keep monitoring your case, we’re just as concerned for your mental health as we are your physical wellbeing.”

“I’d feel much better about my mental health if I could leave of my own free will, or you know--call my dad. And oh hey, isn’t this Yellow Wallpaper a little on the nose?” Quentin said. Okay that was a bit bitchy.

“We’re contacting your family as we speak,” Dr. Brown said, “But we would like to discuss the results of your scan with  _ you _ before they get here. It’s your right as a patient.”

She really needed to stop saying things that were so rational.

“Quentin, your brain shows an extreme abnormality called Undifferentiated Frontal Lobe Syndrome.” Dr. Pierce’s hands flexed around the manila folder in his hands, Quentin’s medical records he assumed. 

And okay wow. Terrible bedside manner, party of one.

Quentin’s heart rate ratcheted up. He took a deep breath.

“You’re trying to scare me.” He said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

Dr. Pierce took off his glasses and used the fabric of his jacket to polish them. “Quentin,  _ i’m _ scared. For you.” And once again Quentin wanted to throw the guy against a wall with his brain. “I’m scared about what will happen if we don’t act fast in this circumstance. The abnormality in your brain--I’m honestly surprised you’re speaking to us right now. The neurons connecting the hemispheres of your brain are fusing, likely causing the change in demeanor that Dr. Brown has noticed recently.” He looked at her pointedly. Dr. Brown kept her eyes firmly on Quentin. “If left untreated, you will experience extreme hallucinations, drastic changes to your personality, memory loss, and if you are  _ incredibly lucky, _ your life expectancy is 6 months.”

“But we’re fortunate, Quentin.” Dr. Brown said firmly, reasonably. “Dr. Pierce is the foremost expert in the treatment of--”

Quentin swallowed. “I’d like a second opinion.” Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.

Dr. Pierce sighed, setting down the folder on the counter. He pulled a blue, translucent sheet of plastic out from inside. Stepping around Dr. Brown, he walked to the side of Quentin’s bed and held it up to the lamp.

“Quentin--Mr. Coldwater. There isn’t a doctor on this planet who would tell you that this is anything other than abnormal. Almost the entirety of your frontal cortex is affected.” Dr. Pierce pointed to a spot on the MRI like it would make any damn sense to him. 

But then knees pressed down into the bed behind Quentin, small hands gripped his shoulders. A plastic name tag bumped against the exposed triangle of skin on his back, sending up goosebumps in its wake. The smell of strong antiseptic hand-wash flooded his nose. A shudder rippled through Quentin as blonde hair tickled his neck.

Alice. Alice was kneeling behind him on the bed, leaning over his shoulder to squint closer at the scan in front of his face.

“How bizarre.” Alice murmured to herself. 

Quentin was aware of her every heartbeat, every twitch of the body behind him.

He kept absolutely still, not trying to betray the fact that he was seeing and feeling someone that the other doctors could not.

“Hmm, I’ve never seen an abnormality like that before, what did he say it was again?” Alice spoke softly in his ear, the line of her stethoscope dug into his back.

“What--what did you call it? The thing wrong with my brain--”

Dr. Pierce let out a long put-upon sign, “Undifferentiated Frontal Lobe Syndrome.”

Alice snorted.

“What?” Quentin said, unthinking.

Dr. Pierce blinked at him. “Pardon me?”

“Don’t talk to me!” Alice growled. Growled. There was no other word for it. He’d never heard her sound like that before.

Quentin coughed into his sleeve. “Sorry--I meant to say, what is the treatment for this--for Undifferentiated Frontal Lobe Syndrome? What do we-- what do we do?”

Dr. Pierce dropped the film from the light and walked back to the other side of the room to put it back into the file that Quentin was desperate to read from start to finish and yet also wanted to throw out the window to disappear forever.

“The treatment is radical, however a majority of patients have retained much brain function.” Dr. Pierce said. Alice’s hands on his shoulders tightened until Quentin was pretty sure he’d have fingerprint bruises.

“That’s a  _ terrible _ way to give a patient news.” Alice said. Her fingers were going to cut off circulation to his brain. “This guy is  _ such _ an asshole.”

“Regardless, the only treatment--which has a small window to be a viable option--is to perform an operation that would remove the damaged portion of your frontal cortex. Like I said, radical. However--” The doctor said calmly.

“Remove my frontal cortex?” Quentin felt a hysterical laugh bubble up from his stomach. Alice pressed him bodily down by his shoulders, grounding him when he tried to stand. Because that’s what you just  _ did _ when someone told you they were going to cut out your brain. You stood if you were sitting, and you sat down if you were standing. Those were the rules of getting terrible news. “You’re kidding.”

“Part of your frontal cortex.” The doctor said in firm words. Not kidding.

“You said it was almost the whole thing--that’s not just like taking out my appendix--that’s, um, that's a lobotomy!” Quentin’s laugh transformed into a panicked shout before Quentin could stop it. 

He’d taken intro to Psych in undergrad, he’d paid more attention to the parts that dealt his own issues than was probably healthy. But he remembered enough about the basics.

The frontal lobe. That was the place decision making, speech, emotional response and  _ personality _ all called home. It also played a major factor in producing the happy fun chemical Serotonin but that was a whole  _ other _ kettle of fish.

A lobotomy.

This was an actual nightmare he’d had before.

This was the kind of thing that happened in movies and in one-man shows that left the audience feeling  _ weird  _ and raw and wondering if it had been the best idea to take their midwestern family to when they should have just shelled out the cash to see The Lion King again.

This was a  _ lobotomy _ .

And then it happened.

He’d felt it before. That old friend. That enemy. The one who pulled up outside the house and honked the horn to announce its presence no matter if it was day or night. Never called ahead. Never knocked.

Quentin felt nothing.

It was a familiar feeling. He’d existed with it for years--for his whole life. It was his shadow, always there. A great swath of just  _ nothing _ swept through him.

Quentin had been wrong before. 

Languid wasn’t a word to describe Eliot. Eliot was vibrant and  _ alive. _

Quentin was the one who was listless, unmoving, unfeeling.

This was a response to stress--it had to be. Better to feel nothing than the debilitating panic that lived in the other room, scratching at the walls. Keep that fucker chained to the radiator. He was nothing but bad news.

Quentin blinked, coming back to himself. Disassociating. He was disassociating. He looked to Dr. Brown to ground himself, losing himself in the familiar curves and lines of her face.

He looked at Dr. Brown as Dr. Pierce continued to explain what was happening in scientific terms that Quentin couldn’t so much as spell. He watched as Dr. Brown’s carefully cool expression began to crack around the edges, as the color drained from her cheeks.

Because she knew it was real.

She was a doctor and the words coming out of Dr. Pierce’s lips were a language she was fluent in.

This was happening to Quentin and she was mourning him right before his very eyes.

Alice was silent. A spector behind him. Listening intently. He vaguely noted the feeling of her breasts against his back as she heaved great big, worried breaths.

“I need to go do some research, okay Quentin?” Alice said, cutting through the droning on and on of the other doctor.

Quentin somewhat of an affirming sound.

“Don’t ah--don’t do anything--” Alice paused, getting her words under her. “Just give me a little bit of time and we’ll figure this out, okay?”

And the pressure on his shoulders released and Quentin felt blood return to the surface of his skin.

He cleared his throat.

“I’d like to spend whatever time I have at home. With my dad.” Quentin said, cutting the man off. He said it firmly, if quietly. It was a last ditch request. He could sign himself out AMA. Get out.

Silence rang out in the room for a brief moment.

“We will discuss your options shortly, once we can make sure that someone is capable of making an informed decision regarding your care.” Dr. Pierce said. 

“I’m an adult. I’m 26 years old. I am--ah, not broken. I’m capable of making my own choices here.” Quentin swallowed around the lump building in his throat. Tried to sound convincing. He swore he saw Margo in the periphery of his vision for several seconds, nodding.

But at this point, that might have been an  _ actual _ hallucination.

Dr. Brown took a deep breath. She blinked rapidly. He watched her hand flutter as if to reach out and touch his knee, but then she thought better of it. She pitied him in this moment.

He was reminded of Alice.

_ Alice _ . Please. Alice.

“Quentin, you are very sick. You deserve the best care possible.” Dr. Pierce said. Shit. Shit.  _ Shit.  _ “Let’s discuss this again when you’ve had some time to think about it, alright? I’ll send a nurse along to change your dressings, put in a new IV.”

And just like that Quentin was left alone.

Truly alone.

The lock clicked into place.

932.2 miles away Penny Adiyodi tore his headphones from his ears, slammed his laptop shut and uttered a single word. “Fuck!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback has been awesome! I know we are in a super dark part of the story here, but I promise there will be Cluster hijinks in coming chapters. We gotta get through the first trial the gang will be facing!
> 
> Also, does anyone have an opinion about seeing other points of view in the coming chapters. I've been toying with whether that would be strange after being with just Quentin for so long, if that would take away from the narrative. Let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Next chapter: Julia, Penny and Q in the same room? Wild.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos make my heart go pitter patter.


End file.
